


Lingering

by augustadacica



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Drama, Episode Tag, Episode: s01e03 In The Dark, F/M, Porn With Plot, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-08
Updated: 2011-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:03:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augustadacica/pseuds/augustadacica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Gem of Amarra has left the world in a tiny green shockwave, and Angel finds himself missing some things in a different way than he'd expect</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lingering

The phantom sensation was strange. Hell, it was impossible, but he could swear he still felt the gravelly scrape, the bite of jagged concrete edges against the palm of his hand. It itched in dusty scratches along the meandering lines folding his skin. With lazy impatience, he rubbed his hand along the heavy edge of the book cover it was cupped around. The feeling only intensified, almost as if to mock him. He scrubbed the thought away, two impatient fingers edged from temple to the bridge of his nose and back.

It had been hours.

Irreverently, Angel imagined it should have been the warmth of the sunset to stay with him, enveloping him, coating his skin still. Not for the first time, it was solely the pain that lingered with him longest.

Under his chair, wooden floorboards creaked with compression, sharpening the surrounding hush.

Had he not known the world better, he could have found it ironic that in the end the Gem had been so fragile; but this was an irony well documented through the caprices of history. An ever-present trade-off between frailty and power, an irrepressible cause offered to always covet the ephemeral. Angel’s lips twitched into something pale and twisted, brittle through the haze of his weariness. It was a mien very far from pleasant.

The tug of yearning swept over him smoothly, mercurially. It pressed through his skin in waves of expectation, daring him to make an escape. Suddenly the thick darkness in his apartment felt cloying, the stillness too strained and unnatural.

Suddenly, there seemed nothing so important as feeling that warmth again, trapping it where it refused to linger.

His vision swam with flash after flash of Cordelia’s soft, comforting, incessant touches. Over the rigid, hot-cold backdrop of a jolting metal carriage, the feel of her skin had anchored him. Eased him back from the headspace he’d retreated into, buffered from Marcus and his crude torture. Spike had called him an expert; an artist. Angel saw him for the insight-lacking amateur who got off on a bit of pain and a lot of his own voice; who wrapped up almost-predictable directness in superficial psychobabble.

Even now, a minute part of him that grew detached and inquisitive and still felt connected to Spike – really, _really_ minute, he stressed needlessly – went over the day’s events to bring them to order. That same part of him wondered whether his childe had kept his strong distaste for torture or simply figured it futile to put it to use on the one who’d taught him. Although, with Spike’s unparalleled lack of patience, the outsourcing really shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

Angel was pulled back again into the vivid memories of Cordelia’s gentle, concerned hands. They banked the conflagration prickling right under the surface of his skin. In that moment, they again made him regret how easily he’d flinched away from her after – before – the whole _everything_ with Spike came to a head. Same way he’d regretted it during the sharp clarity descended when thick iron had spread splintering fire along his gut and through his shoulder; when he’d danced his torn body around those dusty shafts of sunlight.

So foolish of him, the images whispered tauntingly along his inflamed nerve endings, to dismiss her touch as unwanted.

Angel vaulted upright with a low, protracted growl. The sum of his need had become a (sharp, needling) pinpoint concentrated deep and low behind his navel.

 

He found her easily. An incipient hyperawareness of her had marshalled his thoughts and strategized his steps into immediate efficiency. Just add it to the list of reasons why it was a good day.

And now here he was, keeping clear of the press of bodies, caged in by dim, multicoloured lights and vibrating shadows; out on the fringes and looking in.

Out on the fringes, the dreary insignificance of which he’d spent life and unlife rejecting.

Out on the fringes, where he’d learnt to carve his space over the long, acrid trickling of a century.

Out on the fringes, where _she_ had started trying to pull at him, to make him feel like he no longer had to belong.

Alert, rapacious eyes, aglow with all the avarice of a demon, roamed over the steep lines of her undulating form. She parted the thick air with combinations of moves soft and complicated, each bleeding a little more of her tension out and away. Here, a toss of hair made her look fiery and untamed. There, a gentle twist of hips beckoned in mockery of the submissive sweetness outlining everything she was not.

His artist’s eye drank her in, a study in contrasts.

‘ _Smashing_ ’. It was, in the end, such an inadequate description; lacklustre in the face of her when captured in the merest moments of near-unbridled passion.

That same insistent tugging coalesced once more, heavier this time, impregnated with the desire to be the cause of her passion fully unbound.

He saw his opening and seized it with all the artful facility a master predator had at his disposal. Smooth navigation and a deft perusal of her body language had her boxed in at the bar when she went looking for refreshments.

“Cordelia.” His intent became contoured in wicked glee when he made her heart rate dance with that low murmur of her name. High on her surge of adrenaline, he allowed himself the split-second or two it took to fill all his senses on her.

Moist heat washed over his exposed skin via the soft sheen that covered hers. The tangy scent of her sweat mingled with the elegant, sophisticated notes of her perfume, tickling his nose with the tantalising blend. The reaction was immediate, and Angel had to force his body not to turn outwardly rigid. His muscles tightened, knots and strings of raw power, as he held back the urge to burrow his nose far into the lustrous cascade of her hair. Now _there_ would be something worth a tickle.

She was wearing the kind of slinky sheath that made him question whether the dress had been poured on her or she’d been poured into it. Watching her dance had nothing on the visual overload of having her within touching distance. The rush of seeing her up-close struck through him from top to bottom in a single instant.

 

The coil behind his navel grew heavier and tighter still. The whole of his skin crackled with anticipation. If his hands itched now, it was for reasons immensely more palatable.

He’d lick a very slow path along the angular swells and dips of her shoulder blades, Angel decided. If she was sensitive enough, he’d bear in mind to ease his fangs along her spine, then maybe down her lower stomach. _Definitely_ feather a gentle scratch or two across her mons. It would drive her wild.

Vertiginous heels enhanced the contours of her toned calves and thighs. They were the perfect height, he noted as Cordelia turned to face him. He could have her splayed against a wall to face him and her hips would cradle his just so.

“Angel,” she said, and though her voice was bright enough her smile was little more than a quick stretching of her lips.

Angel frowned, wishing – not unreasonably he thought – for that unconditional warmth she’d already begun getting him used to.

“What are you doing here?” The question was laden with the wealth of divergent emphases only Cordelia could imbue.

Five short words and an almost timid hover of her hand above his wrist; another rippling jolt rushed through his body.

Before he could question the decision, Angel had her by the hand and more than halfway to the exit. He started low, sweeping strokes of his thumb across her knuckles as soon as he felt her muscles tense so she could tug free.

“Angel! What–”

He’d spotted a sort of private alcove a ways off the cloak room as he’d come in, and that was where he pulled her along now. It was the sort of vantage point that gave him enough of a high ground yet would have them nicely isolated together, at least for as long as he could bear not having her alone. Already they were far enough that he no longer felt the thrum of the music through his body. The relief to his body came and went, as anticipation coupled with Cordelia’s voice only strung him tighter.

Briefly, he let go of her hand.

“Angel?”

 

“I got worried,” he said, drawing her between the wall and his body and pinning her with the sort of guileless look that only decades of practice could perfect. “About Spike, I mean. He might be out there gunning for revenge” – not really Spike’s style, but what she didn’t know – “And I didn’t even think until–” He trailed off, earning himself a gentle, but still too brief squeeze of his forearm.

Heavy bass dragged through the silence lengthening between them. Angel counted out five beats melding together like the reverberations of a gong.

“But if Spike _is_ out for revenge–”

“He wouldn’t come at me directly, Cordelia.” Again, more his style than Spike’s, but as long as it meshed well enough with her recollections... “Even if he knew I don’t have the Gem–”

“Kicking his ass not an issue. Check. But why me?”

No navigation required; this he could answer truthfully.

“Spike never compliments, Cordelia. He’d have you turned before you could draw in the breath to scream.”

She scrunched up her face in a little moue, then shook her head and locked gazes with him. Her breath washed over his chin, hot and slightly dry and carrying over a hint of something fruity.

“Hey, when you say you don’t have the Gem...” Her gaze was sharp, still luminous even here in the most penetrating shadows, pupils almost not dilated. It took a bit of effort for Angel not to scowl again.

He let her come to her own conclusions. Doyle would probably tell her tomorrow. What Angel needed was to feel her skin.

This time, he could appreciate it more fully.

Gently, because he needed to learn her every nuance, he started drawing his fingertips up and down the insides of her wrists. He was entranced with the little thump of her pulse at the base, with the softly defined muscle shaping above and over it. God, she was soft. And – her forearms jerked and twitched in his hold – not just a bit ticklish.

“Angel!” Cordelia said again sharply. He encircled her wrists fully when she tried a stronger tug. Not satisfied, Angel moved half a step closer, looming over her enough to take in the full scope of her scent.

“Hey, there’s a reason it’s called a personal bubble, mister, and _you_ need to take your vampy self out of mine!”

“Mm, and it’s a lovely bubble, Cordelia,” Angel murmured, turning his slow descent into a long, deliberate nuzzle of her hair. “But I’m not sure it wants to be here while I’m seducing you.”

Her heartbeat became that much more audible. It teased his eardrums with its rhythmic little thud and whoosh, almost matching the thrumming of the song wafting over them. He could have smiled. Instead, he took advantage of her belligerent stance and insinuated his hips that bit closer to her slightly parted thighs.

“Nuh-uh, buddy. I am _not_ your little post-Slayer rebound, so don’t even think about it.”

“I know. You’re not.” Angel kissed the edge of her cheek, right by the tragus, beginning to relish the way she’d softened her shimmied tugs and near-pushes at him. “Cordelia.” He made sure to inject as much of a purr into his voice as it could carry. Even if she didn’t take to it, his body surged with the reminder of how much it enjoyed those vibrations.

And with just the barest taste of her skin, she had him unravelled.

Not breaking contact between his nose and the fragrant silk it was buried in – because he didn’t have to, what was vampire dexterity for? – he gradually brought his caresses higher and higher. Every move he kept very intent and very deliberate. He called on expertise of muscles and nerve endings, of pressure points and sensitive patches of skin, to make the most out of the short journey.

One hand he let rest on her neck for long moments while continuing to trail the other up her lax arm and down over her fingertips.

Her skin was starting to flush, blood already singing under the supple surface. Her quickening pulse was beating a heavy tattoo against his palm. Angel could have sworn it made all the muscles in his hand vibrate along with it. He stamped out a ravenous, delighted growl before it could fully form.

Cordelia shifted her stance subtly. Between his intense focus on her and the extent of his senses, Angel knew almost before she did that she’d started squeezing her thighs together, very lightly. Angel reeled. Experiencing her burgeoning arousal begin to ignite was like witnessing the rarest of flowers catch its first full bloom.

The catalyst took.

Every time he’d thought his passion had reached a summit, she’d unknowingly broken it and brought him higher. Now, Angel was determined to just let it consume him; no assumptions, no expectations, and – lesson learned – no limits.

This time, he didn’t hold back his growl.

In less than it took for awareness of the initiative to form, he already had one hand tangled in her hair – heel of his palm still pressed gently against her thudding pulse, because he’d already become attuned to the feel. His other arm he wrapped tightly around her back, so that his hand edged at the swell of her ass, taking care not to bring their bodies into more contact. He wanted the room to move, not to mention keeping the continued grasp on his control.

Then finally, _finally_ , he allowed them both the luxury and kissed her.

 

Cordelia Chase was a treat for the palate, a delicacy embodied. He hadn’t needed the taste of her lips or skin, the intense scent of her arousal, the confident and responsive reciprocation to his every touch, or in fact the scalding delight of having his hand between her thighs, to know this.

But with the sensory overload came the indelible confirmation.

In a rare poetic moment, Angel could find it almost eye-opening. Like reading of a burnished sunset compared to the sight of it spilling in rich hues over the coast of Galway. Like knowing the fiery licks of a stiff drink only to curse yourself blind after a hefty swig of jinars (fucking Dracula – it was only because he’d switched glasses with random ‘guests’ five or six times that Angelus had finally believed the liquor hadn’t been laced with holy water)... Like drifting on the fringes of a revolution versus being the reason history remembered it as the Reign of Terror.

Cordelia Chase was magnificent.

All the more so when she was treating his neck and chin like her personal smorgasbord of erogenous discoveries.

After a bit of deft manoeuvring on his part, complete with some highly creative wrist motions, Angel edged her skirt high enough that he could have all the freedom of movement he craved. He gave another twist of his hand and followed up with a solid, gentle tug. Her underwear slid down and gathered, confining her thighs just so. Silk organza, by the feel of it; decadent, almost as soft as Cordelia’s inner thighs, and far too delicate to tear. He was looking forward to getting the full effect later on.

 _Fuck_! She was so wet, and she was swelled open, and his fingers glided along so easily. The scent of her, earthier and richer, compounded now by the full slick, viscous feel of her vulva opening under his touch, called to him desperately. Angel clutched her to him and took the time to play; to see how well she’d accommodate him.

After building up friction to his satisfaction, he pressed, twisted and tapped his fingers against her fully, from clit to perineum. Cordelia treated him to a full-body shudder, and burrowed into him, and got a good bite in just under his Adam’s apple. It was only natural he reward her by doing it again more firmly.

“You open up so well for me,” he said lowly into her ear, half surprised it wasn’t coming out as a series of staccato growls and monosyllables. “Will you like it as much when I have you on my bed and just as open? Or when my tongue is so deep inside you that your taste’ll never vanish?

“Will you taste me back, Cordelia? I want you to. I want you to feel – to see – how crazy you can make me with a puff of your breath; with just your lips.

“Aah; you were made for me. Just like this. Just – for – me.” He punctuated with easy nips at her neck and earlobe, and kept to the circling motion of his fingertips up and down her slit. The way she was moving her hips now was better than any dance she could put to music.

“For you?” Her voice was a heady mix of shaking and husky. “How” – a bit-back little grunt that went straight to his balls – “how is this remotely for you?”

Angel kissed her again, that same soft, sucking pressure eased in against her lips: lower, upper, both; repeated. The flutter of her eyelashes was the barest whisper of a brush along his skin.

“Because, this _is_ me.” He trailed a moist, brief path back to her ear and freed enough of his hand out of her hair to start a slow massage at the nape of her neck. “It’s me who your heart is racing for; me who gets to hear it beat– And I can make out every detail, every thump-thump-thump.” With increasing pressure, he tapped the pad of his middle finger thrice against her clit, in time with each repeat. Unable to help himself, he licked a broad swath behind her ear, all the way to the hairline. “It’s me who makes your body grow hotter – mmm – whose body feels the burn of yours.

“Me you’re this wet for.

“Me you’re welcoming inside this gorgeous, _tight_ body.” And she was tight, but more than wet enough, and so too was Angel careful in easing a finger, then soon another, inside her.

He needed to end this soon. They’d lingered here more than he’d meant to. The plan, inasmuch as it had been a string of thoughts slightly more evolved than wants and instincts, had entailed absconding with her from her current location and introducing her to his bed. Should have been much quicker. But he’d underestimated her; had sorely underestimated the effect she could have on him now he’d opened himself to the possibility.

That brought him back to wants and instincts. He wanted her to come apart in his arms; his instincts told of how close she was to a gorgeous climax. He wanted her in his bed; his instincts whispered that tonight she would be receptive and enticingly malleable.

He wanted– Ah, keeping tomorrow would be tomorrow’s problem. He was ready to bask in his warm today.

**Author's Note:**

> *1) jinars _is a very strong double-distilled 'brandy' typical to regions in Transylvania. Even more hardened drinkers tend to sip rather daintily at this one._
> 
> *2) _The_ Reign of Terror _is the thirteen-month period before the end of the French Revolution: 1793-1794. Upwards of 40,000 people may have been massacred during this time. Canonically, Angelus sired Puritan Boy at some point in 1786, giving him ample time to hop along to the Old Continent after. Not a stretch to see him in France at the time of such large-scale bloodshed. And, well, he's Angelus; he would take credit for it all..._


End file.
